


Disengagement Theory

by zimriya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: I am so late to this barricade party, M/M, this is what i do in sociology class
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:42:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimriya/pseuds/zimriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disengagement Theory: the abandonment of social roles in the face of imminent death.</p><p>In the days leading up to the revolution, Grantaire begins to find that  not even the blazing look in Enjolras’ eyes is worth the scorn in his voice; Enjolras doesn’t even notice, until one day, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disengagement Theory

**Author's Note:**

> For crazygreenflamingo, FEEL BETTER BROTHER MINE. betaed by the lovely soph, as per usual. Enjoy. (also for privatescreen on tumblr, who sent me an awesome message about it.)

**Disengagement Theory**

\--

It happens so subtly that at first even Grantaire himself does not notice, let alone the others. It manifests initially in his lack of interest in the roaring fights that usually color his and Enjolras’ conversations. Enjolras is no less of an impassioned and intelligent debater; it is just, for some reason, Grantaire cannot bring himself to care anymore.

(That is a lie. Perhaps it is that he cares too much.)

The bottle is no less alluring, but he finds himself sipping from it less and less. He wonders if this is what it is to give up hope, and thinks to himself only of how it is so very ironic that in doing so, he should learn to be healthy.

But really, he thinks nothing of it until Enjolras breaks off, gaping, mid-speech.

“What did you say?” he says. He sounds desperate. The red coat has been abandoned on the railing long ago, and sweat has pressed his curls to his forehead, made his shirt collar sit unevenly against his collar bones. He is no less beautiful for it, but the tone of his voice is unsettled.

Grantaire pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips and carefully lowers it back to the table in front of him, leaving it there and stacking his hands neatly together in front of him. Enjolras’ eyes frantically latch onto the movement and he makes a strangled noise.

“Erm,” says Grantaire. “I do not believe I said much of anything.” He risks a quick smirk. Enjolras, if anything, looks even more undone. Grantaire should probably find that amusing, but instead he is only tired.

“Exactly!” Enjolras barks, eyes still narrowed. “You never have nothing to say!”

Grantaire blinks. “I was under the impression that to you, everything I have ever had to say has been nothing.” It should be at this moment that Grantaire should reclaim the bottle with a laugh and leave Enjolras to his passion. He does neither.

Enjolras has at least attempted to resume his speech, but his words are less put together and his eyes keep darting between Grantaire and the untouched bottle, distracted. After a long pause, Combeferre heaves a sigh, and begins where he leaves off. His words are no less passionate, but there is none of the underlying urgency that colors Enjolras’ every waking breath.

Grantaire has only moments to appreciate the man’s affect--cleaner than Enjolras’, but less deadly, less likely to start raging wildfires in the hearts of the surrounding people--before Enjolras comes striding towards him like the very fire itself.

He wraps his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist in a hot brand. “Outside,” he says. “Now.”

Grantaire can feel his heart thump, loudly, and the blood rush in his ears. Oh. That, at least, has not been lost to him. He manages a half-baked nod and when Enjolras releases him to head for the stairs, he follows. He leaves the bottle on the table; he’s not sure why.

Enjolras is standing just outside the café, staring out at the buildings lining the street. For a moment, Grantaire isn’t sure if he even notices him, but the almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulders gives him away.

“You called?” Grantaire says. He follows the line of Enjolras’ eyes out across the cobblestone.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. He sounds almost reverent. “Do you doubt me, Grantaire?”

Grantaire cannot remember the last time Enjolras saw fit to call him by his given name. He shivers. “Doubt your cause, yes,” he says. “But you?”

Enjolras finally turns to look him with intent eyes.

He breaks off sighing. “I do not think I could doubt you if I wanted to.”

The unbridled emotion in Enjolras’ eyes takes Grantaire’s breath away. He swallows, heavily, reflexively, and Enjolras follows the movement with a look of complete concentration. Grantaire cannot remember the last time Enjolras looked at him that way without being provoked.

He continues, “But surely I have made no secret of this to you, of all people. I would go so far as to say that you scorn me for this faith.”

Enjolras winces, but he does not deny it. “You did not argue with me today,” he says eventually, quietly, and refuses to meet Grantaire’s eyes.

“Is this what is bothering you?” Grantaire snaps; something about the way Enjolras is staring somewhere above his head makes him tense. Already he can feel the too tight stretch of his skin as he thinks, for the first time that evening, of the near-full bottle on the table. “Am I not even allowed to for once agree with you?”

“Do you?” Enjolras bites back, voice rising in response to the venom coloring Grantaire’s words. “Do you agree with me?”

“No,” Grantaire retorts, because he can almost remember what it was Enjolras had been saying when this entire conversation began and he is relatively certain he did not agree. Either way, his body has two responses to the tone Enjolras is using, and anger is always the safer option. (This is not to say, of course, that there still isn’t an underlying thrum of lust when he looks at Enjolras.) “I don’t think so, anyway. What does it even matter if I do or do not?”

Enjolras looks strained. “Everyone agrees with me,” he mutters.

“Marius doesn’t,” Grantaire points out, meanly.

“Marius does not count,” Enjolras snaps. “He is in love.”

Grantaire opens his mouth and closes it. The fight has very suddenly gone out of him.

“What?” Enjolras shakes his head at him. He takes a step or two closer to him, before stopping, abruptly. Two spots of color appear high on his cheeks. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah.” Grantaire pauses. “I need a drink,” he says, laughing a little.

Enjolras frowns. “Also, that,” he says, still not looking away. Grantaire feels like he is under a microscope. “You haven’t been drinking as much.”

Grantaire gives him a look. “You are concerned that I am no longer fighting you on every point and drinking my way under the table?” he says, pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room. “I should think you’d be pleased.”

Enjolras frowns harder, but says nothing. He looks away finally and Grantaire watches him with an amused look.

“I shall make an effort to argue with you, if that is what you would want,” Grantaire tries to say, uncertain of what Enjolras even wants from him.

“I do not want you to do something that you do not want to do,” Enjolras says quickly.

Grantaire blinks at him, retraces that sentence, and almost flushes. “I think we established that I usually don’t agree with you,” he says quietly.

“And that you don’t count,” Enjolras replies, also quiet, without meeting his eyes.

Grantaire cannot even think; Grantaire cannot even breathe. He’s saved the hassle when Courfeyrac appears at the window overlooking the street to shout down at them.

“Oi,” he shouts. “You two. Get your asses in here, Combeferre needs to talk at you!”

Enjolras and Grantaire both startle, one after the other, and end up almost laughing in the resulting awkward silence.

“Hello!” Courfeyrac calls. “Love birds!”

Enjolras throws up an arm in response, half angry, half still flushing, and Grantaire focuses on anything but the man standing too close for comfort. “We’re coming!” Enjolras shouts back.

“Love birds?” Grantaire mutters under his breath. “How crucial is he to this revolution?”

“You’re not allowed to kill him and hide the body,” Enjolras says, but he’s laughing. “Come on.”

Grantaire smiles back at him. It feels more forced than he’s used to, and Enjolras seems to notice. “After you,” he says softly.

Enjolras stares back at him for a long moment, before his eyes go hard, and his spine stiffens, and Grantaire is left to gape as he transforms from man to leader before his eyes. He starts back towards the cafe with a brisk step. Grantaire watches him go silently, not sure if he really wants to follow, if the man-turned-statue in front of him wants him to follow.

Enjolras, of course, seems to sense his hesitation, and he reaches back with one hand to grab Grantaire by the arm and haul him along. Forcefully, of course, because he wouldn’t be Enjolras if he didn’t, but when they reach the stairs, his brushes his thumb along the line of Grantaire’s palm.

His next speech is preparing them for the coming revolution, and when Marius shows up half asleep and dreaming of pretty girls, Grantaire can’t help but hijack the conversation in his favor. The look Enjolras throws him is positively poisonous, but in the split second when Grantaire looks back at him, he swears that he’s almost smiling.

\--

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! Feel free to shoot me an ask on [tumblr](http://www.zimriya.tumblr.com).


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